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 &u(){&bold(){Journal of a Kirhean}}
 &bold(){This is the journal of Syyd Ihn'tha of the Fourth Moon, in it shall I rest my recollections of days past.}    
 &bold(){May our children make of it what they can.}
 &bold(){For doom and glory, my brothers and sisters.  For doom and glory.}
 &italic(){Upon the first day of the Fifth month, morning hours.}  
 &italic(){I begin my recollections with a story told to me as a child.  Such is the narrative of our history, and the promise of our future.}
 &u(){&bold(){Dust and Thunder}}
 Dust rose from the ground, like a foul steam...
 As the armored man lay prone, he peered across the plains, his vision focusing on the horizon...a single point against the second sun's rising disk stood exposed.  Not for long though; as the first sun set, the single point expanded across the horizon...
 "They've shown brother," looking up the warrior saw the vision that was his commander, kneeling beside him.  His armor shining brilliantly in the light of the omen star, the glowing blue of his armor's visor stoicly gazing at the enemy...his cape of blood red and silver resting in the dead heat of the day..."That they most certainly have my lord," the warrior rose to a kneeling position.  "They mean to frighten us lord, see how they raise their banner," The commander's gaze followed the direction of his warrior's arm to the black and red banner across the plains.  The warrior could almost hear the feral grin on his commander's face, "we shall have to respond in kind then brother, raise the flag, let loose the drums."
 The order's flew swiftly upon the comnet, in short order the flag was raised, and as if by some will of the ancestors...a breeze lifted it high showing the black field, a single silver star set upon it, as the drums began.  The beat and timbre out of place on a more civilized world perhaps, but upon this desert plain, the tribal drums and horns echoed in the hearts of all who heard them, friend and foe alike...thunder...death...glory...
 As the warriors of the omen star rose from their positions, they added to the cacaphony, beating upon their armored chests with fist and spear.  Their will united in their purpose, they began their march, the silver star flying in the wind.  
 Upon the rise on the opposite side of the plains, the armored warriors stood.  Their spears planted firmly, their unwavering discipline presented as if it were a shield.  Before them stood a single figure, silent and yet the loudest presence of them all.  As the drums and horns of their enemy began to thunder, he turned ever so slightly. "Warriors, hear me!  To our back is disgrace!  To our face is doom and glory! We are the hammer, and the anvil is their pride!"
 The commander took up his spear and leveled it at the approaching warriors, from his throat a battlecry issued forth"TO DEATH!"
 The warriors took up their spears and held to their chests a salute, "TO GLORY"...
 A primal beat rose from the plains, as the warriors advanced on both sides...first at a march...finally at a run...the crack of thunder when foe met foe reached the ancestors...or so it is told...
 This is the beginning...and ever shall it be the end...
 We who live by the spear, die also by it...
 What a glorious death shall we make of it...
 &italic(){Upon the fifteenth day of the fifth month, aftermorn hours.}
 &italic(){I have been unable to attend my self appointed duties, and for that I am shamed.  Let me rectify it with this entry.}
 &italic(){The commander briefed us early, we are to travel north.  It would seem the enemy has found an artifact of our ancestors, though fear is a hardly used word in my vocabulary, it is fitting for my thoughts here.  I shudder to think what they have found, that could elicit this response from the fleet.  We move in force, and such a force it is...if they bring to bear all they have upon this world, they shall still suffer greatly at our hands.  They are surely aware, yet they march relentlessly.}
 &italic(){Upon the fifteenth day of the fifth month, late hour.}
 &italic(){My heart still recovers even as I compose this...an elite, one of the twelve...that, to my great honor and despair I should live to meet one in person...surely, we march to doom and glory...how many brothers will I lose?}
+&italic(){Upon the thirtieth and final day of the fifth month, morning hour.}
+&italic(){We have come upon the ruins of a great temple, still sealed against time.  The enemy guarded it fiercely, and in the taking we have lost a great host of soldiers.  But under the command of Elite Ahn'tah we have prevailed, raining fire and death down from the heavens upon them...until they were no more...  Our scientists work even now to decipher the strange glyphs upon the great doors before us.  I now leave to attend my duties, the dead must be given a proper ceremony.  We shall build the pyre unto the stars my brothers, and your strength shall yet bring us great victories.}
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